


The Chains (Only Break Me)

by hooksandheroics



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Slight Dom/Sub, Smut, also slight powerplay, eheehe, eventually that is, everything is slight because i feel like i focused more on feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hooksandheroics/pseuds/hooksandheroics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing she's looking for is a break from all the stress. What she didn't know was that she'd find the bane of her existence in the bar down the street, and an offer she <b>should have</b> refused.</p>
<p>(Or that AU where Bellamy offers himself to Clarke, and Clarke is a control-freak. In a good way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chains (Only Break Me)

_How did she end up right here?_

The room is dark except for the lonely halo of light that is her nightstand lamp, illuminating the little space next to her bed. The white sheets lay in grave contrast to the skin of the man that lies on it, shirtless, with a thin sheen of sweat on his torso. He glistens with it, his forehead, his chin, his chest – his abdomen, his taut skin disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

His chest heaves up and down with ragged, stuttering breaths, and there’s an imminent bulge in his pants that looks incredibly uncomfortable. The thought that it was her that caused that sends a thrill through her veins. His eyes are closed, his jaw slacked, and his lips parted, and his head tilted back against the wall extending from behind the headboard, and he’s every bit hot as she is bothered.

His arms are strewn around the back of the headboard, making his muscles bunch up and strain against the wood. He’s spread like a feast and the hunger in her gut is getting harder to quell with each passing minute.

And there she is, standing in front of the door, wearing nothing but a film-thin nightgown, concealing nothing to the eyes of her prey. (Her _prey_ that had presented himself in front of her like a sacrificial lamb – despite the dark eyes and the confident smirk, whispering in her ear to _do whatever you want with me_.

Her shiver was palpable against the tight space in between their bodies against that bar – and it was so vulgar, the way he had gripped her waist, his fingers imprinting on the skin revealed by her cropped top. But neither of them seemed to care.

She didn’t. Look where it got her.)

She’s naked underneath the flimsy fabric, and the quiet racing of his pulse underneath her lips when she told him that boosted her confidence to another level. And now his eyes are open, and are looking at her with the heat that was his words just earlier, his pupils dark and wide even in the dimness.

One word, a single breath leaving his parted lips, and her thighs clench tight against each other.

“Clarke,” he breathes, quiet, pliant and submissive, and sexy as all hell.

She finally meets his eyes and sees in them the effects of her words and her feather-light touches – her weapons of choice.

_How did she end up here?_

It started at the bar down the street, one glass of vodka too many, a Biology final that she’s sure she would barely pass, and the bane of her existence staring at her from three stools away, nursing a glass of… something. Not that she had been bothered by his staring, it’s just that she’d prefer not to have another verbal sparring with him right then because it’s been a week in hell and she’s just really not in the mood – _oh okay, he’s coming over._

He had sat himself to the stool next to hers, tilted his head at her as if examining an ancient relic he dare not touch in its frailty. It made her blood boil, made her eyes narrow at him, until a smile spread on his face, cocky and mischievous. She wanted to punch him right then (on top of that insistent urge to just kiss him – nope), but instead opted for another long swig from her glass. If she was to deal with the asshole, she needed to get more drunk than the buzzed she had initially planned on getting tonight.

“Let me guess,” he drawled, his smirk still there. _Fuck_. “Finals?”

Fuck him for getting it right the first time.

She snorted and took another sip. She’d be drunk and out of here in no time at this rate. “Bravo. You want a prize for that?” she replied with as much indifference as she can muster.

“I would if I could,” he said, nonchalance lacing his tone. “But I think it’s _you_ who needs it more tonight.”

And okay, Bellamy Blake is a lot of things. An admirable big brother is the most imminent once you get to know him personally, the way it bleeds through to almost every human being he gets close to. He’s just that universal big bro that everyone loves despite his assholery. Second most imminent trait is that – asshole. He’s stubborn and strongly opinionated and grumpy. Much like an old man sitting on his front porch and screaming at children who pass by. That’s him. (But only to her, as Octavia so sweetly reminded her every time they get into a fight. Clarke refuses to think it’s just her because that means there’s something about her that’s particularly irritating that he would spend an hour arguing with her over _freaking_ cheese.)

The last trait that anyone should fixate on, if they can’t really help it, is his downright attractiveness. The Blakes have these genes that are easily defined as scientifically beautiful. Clarke knows. Oh how she _knows_. Everything about him exudes confidence that’s attractive as heck, and his eyes are that dark and piercing and calculating. (One drunken mishap had her stumbling against his naked chest one night, had her mumbling about _how he got those freaking abs is totally not normal and totally hot_ , to which he had replied with, “Natural genetics, I guess”, only to fuck with her because he knows how riled up she gets when someone does that.

It had earned him a punch to the shoulder. Which is as hard as every part of him. _Goddammit, Clarke Griffin._ )

“Oh yeah?” she asked, not really putting any heart into the conversation because if she did, she’d be screwed. “What do you have in mind?”

His smirk grows wicked. “I have a few things in mind, but I don’t think you’re up for it.”

Okay – one more trait: he knows how to push her buttons. One thing about her that she’s actually really proud of is the way she can stay cool and collected even in the direst of times. It’s a necessity when she becomes a doctor, to keep a cool head amidst the chaos. It sharpens her focus and gives her the important points of the situation at hand – but goddammit, if there’s one person that really doesn’t need to know how to rile her up, it should be Bellamy Blake, because if he finds out her pressure points, then he’d be prodding them without relent. _He had already found out about it, Clarke. You’re freaking screwed._

She narrowed her eyes and abandoned her glass to swivel on her chair and face him dead on. “What. Is. It?” she demanded through gritted teeth. If his aim was to relax her, she felt the opposite of it.

He had taken it as a victory and it showed in his eyes. “I’d start with drinks, but it seems like you’ve already checked that off the list. So…” he leaned over so that his lips hover just an inch away from her ear, the shudder that ran down her spine a natural reaction and does _not_ have anything to do with him. The hand that planted itself to his shoulder is her only tether to the reality. “I know how that mind of yours works. I know that it hungers for control. But how much control? That, I think, is the question.”

His words were hot against her skin, the prospect of surrender niggling at the back of her mind like a sparking firecracker, the thought of a ready image of his submission already burning low in her belly, and it’s all she could do not to straddle him right then and there in the public.

Here’s the thing: Clarke is not inexperienced when it comes to sex. She’s had her fair share of men and women, some relationships, but mostly just flings. But it was always just that – sex. And the proposal from Bellamy, one where there’s more than just the meeting of lips, the roaming of hands, and the peaking of the climax – it gave her such a rush she barely even registered that it’s _Bellamy_ of all people that’s offering himself to her. (Never mind the fact that in the one year that she’s thrown herself at her work and school and disregarded her sex life, the rare moments that she has had alone to pleasure herself always, _always_ ends up with him, and his hands, and his tongue, and his eyes in her fantasies.)

He ended his point with his lips closing around her earlobe, his teeth nipping at the flesh ever so lightly, that she had to suppress a rather loud moan. The hand that was on his shoulder tightened around the fabric of his shirt like a vice, and the hiss of his breath gave her so much satisfaction – that it proved his point further.

“H-how?” she managed to stutter out, but she didn’t care. Why? Because when he pulled away to look at her with his hooded eyes, she found out that the idea of turning her on turned _him_ on. It’s enough fuel to seal the deal.

And then, with a wolfish grin, he said. “You do whatever you want to do with me.”

Which brings them to her apartment.

The thing is that he was so right she thinks he regrets letting her take the reins. Because the moment the door closed to seal them in the room, she had done nothing but talk and tease and kiss. And then eventually change into the flimsy nightgown.

“Patience, Bellamy,” she says, tone low and gravelly, biting her lip in a smile that’s sure to steal his breath away if his heaving chest is any indication. She wanted this – she wanted him on her bed and in complete surrender to her words. There _will_ be gratification, but the play at control is much more exhilarating right now when she’s got him panting and moaning even without her touching him.

“What’s next?” he asks, impatience in his tone, but also anticipation, and she likes it.

She ducks her head and looks up at him as she strides closer to the bed. She sits on the end, just out of reach, and smiles. “I want your fingers through your hair,” she commands and delights as he closes his eyes and obeys, as if her words are his strings, and he is her puppet. “Pull and tilt your head back. Let your other hand’s fingers trace down your sternum, imagine it was _mine_.”

He lets out an almost inaudible whimper as his digits trace a line from the side of his face down to his neck, right down the middle of the ridges of his torso down, down, _down_ until it’s impeded by the tent of his erection, and then – “Stop.”

He exhales heavily, and she can see his jaw working underneath his skin, his brows furrowed even when his eyes remain closed. He paints her a picture of such sin that hell would be happy to swallow her up, but only once they’re done here.

_That’s enough_ , she thinks as she plants her knees on either side of his thighs. The movement makes him snap his eyes open to meet hers and the lust in those browns are pulsing and heated, there’s no way they’re not going rough tonight once she gives up the control – and that one promise has her putting all her weight right where they both ache the most. He strangles a rough groan, but she catches it anyway.

She takes both of his hands and guides them underneath her nightgown, and he surges up so fast she almost stumbles back. Good thing his hands are steady on her back to support her because then he’s catching her lips in a bruising kiss, one that has their teeth clacking, and their tongues sliding against each other’s. The heat that has gathered between her thighs intensifies, the need to be filled already at the brink of exploding. So she pushes him back so that he’s flat on the mattress, and laces their fingers together, pinning them on either side of his head.

She takes a moment to appreciate the hardness between her legs that is _her_ own doing, takes a brief second to momentarily recognize the chaos that will definitely ensue the moment this is over, the possibly-hard-to-tackle issues that will emerge, and pushes it to the back of her mind to pick apart later, and takes her time in admiring just how gorgeous he actually is. This is a thing that she has never allowed herself to fixate upon (except when she’s alone – okay, she’s a woman with needs) because most of the time, she’s fantasizing about hitting him with her car.

He seems to be doing the same because he pauses and stares at her with wide amusement and awe that, while veiled and muted most of the time, has always actually been there the whole time. _Fuck these feelings._

She leans forward and kisses him softly, a drastic contradiction to the heady lust a while ago, and she’s astonished to find that she doesn’t mind one bit. He doesn’t seem to, either.

And now that his hands are of his own, he seems eager to touch as much of her skin as possible as they travel up her sides, his thumbs stroking the underside of her breasts, and finally pinching her nipple, making her gasp into his mouth. She grinds her hips against his hard length in retaliation, and he laughs.

“How do you like this _prize_?” he asks against her lips, his breath hot on her skin as his other hand travels down to her cunt.

Despite the haze of desire, she decides to answer that with their usual banter. “I think one of us is enjoying this more,” she replies, then proceeds to gyrate against his erection. He moans low and rough, but he’s not one to back down. His fingers lightly skim her slit, his almost feather-light touch too much and not enough all at once. She buries her face against the side of his neck to muffle an embarrassingly loud mewl, but he’s already chuckling.

“ _I_ think both of us are enjoying this,” he says, and presses another tender kiss on her cheek.

She steels her resolve and rises off of him to sit back on his thighs. Her trembling fingers find the buttons of his jeans and are slowly popping them off one by one – slower than she’s intended. He grasps her hands in his large ones and helps her with it until he’s shucking his pants and his boxers down the bed.

Clarke bites her lower lip and looks at him with surprise. “That looks uncomfortable,” she says coyly, and watches as he shakes his head at her playfulness. He takes her hands once again and wraps them around his length.

“Then help me with it, doc,” he breathes. She obliges and gives him a few experimental tugs, which has him throwing his head back against the pillows and muttering curses under his breath, and he’s so fucking hot she thinks she could climax just watching him.

She thinks – no, claims that she likes him like this, completely at her mercy, so she discards her nightgown and positions herself against his hard cock. She sinks down slowly, his grunts and hisses just adding to the building of heat deep and low in her belly. His trembling hands find purchase on her hips, and there will be bruises there come tomorrow morning, but she doesn’t care.

She lowers herself until he’s fully sheathed inside of her, hot and heavy and pulsing. She can’t help the gasp that escapes her when he thrusts up and hits that spot in her that pushes her one step closer to the edge.

His eyes are still closed, his lips parted, and his breaths are ragged. So she leans down and latches her lips onto his neck, up until she reaches his ear. “Do whatever you want to do with me,” she rasps, and feels his fingers tighten impossibly against her skin. There’s something about repeating his earlier words to him that turns her on even more.

Next thing she knows, she’s being flipped over, her back hitting the mattress with a barely concealed squeal. He settles between her legs and sends her a heated smirk, dark promises of pleasure written in his eyes. “As you wish, princess,” he rasps, pulls out almost completely, and then pushes back in, the delicious friction has her back arching off the mattress, her lips mouthing a silent scream of pleasure as she feels her orgasm build.

She has never been this turned on in her life. And it’s all because of Bellamy Blake.

She locks her ankles around his back and pushes him with them, her own signal for him to _fucking move_ because it’s getting _fucking hot_. He chuckles against her neck and bites lightly before obliging. His thrusts go from excruciatingly slow to a rhythm that has her quelling her sounds of pleasure behind her hand.

It becomes too much, his cock hitting that spot over and over, his thrusts hard and fast and she feels like she’s ripping apart at the seams. His grunts sound in her ear and fuels her peak until she’s there – falling and spasming around him, her shout short-lived and bursting. It hit her so strongly her vision blacks out and her legs fall away limply. He slows down to guide her slowly into her normal breathing rate.

When she opens her eyes, he’s staring at her with an open vulnerability that both scares her and excites her.

“You’re beautiful even when you come undone,” he whispers, as if he wasn’t meaning to, as if those are wild thoughts that had escaped their cages. And she’s so terrified of what this means that she shuts her eyes and kisses him until he’s moving in her once more, chasing his own release.

He pulls away and pants her name in the midst of him kissing her face – two, three more thrusts, and he’s groaning and coming in her, her name an imprint in her own skin in his breath. He goes still, arms shaking with the strain of holding himself up so as not to crush her under his weight. (How gentlemanly of him – and it irks Clarke to no end, because how is she supposed to let this just go?)

He rolls over to her side, both of them gasping for air. She revels in the tingling of her skin and the throbbing of her muscles in time with her still erratic heartbeat. She delights in the fact that he’s just about as burned out as she is.

And then he’s chuckling. “How’s that for a prize?” he asks, still breathless, but still cocky.

She tries to shrug nonchalantly even when she thinks the feeling has only begun returning to her limbs. “It was alright.”

He reaches out and pinches her side, and she squirms away with a loud giggle. He answers with an open laughter and with an arm slinging around her waist, pulling her into the warmth of his body. Her muscles relax on their own as she melts into him, feeling the exhaustion slip into her veins.

She thinks, sleepily, that tomorrow, they should really talk about this.

* * *

 

They don’t talk about it the next day – not when they spent the whole day in bed, and that one time she had to get up or they’ll starve to death and they still ended up having sex on her kitchen counter.

In fact, they don’t talk about it until about three weeks later.

When Octavia locks them both up in Clarke’s bedroom and wouldn’t let them out until there’s a concrete definition of what they are. Or _at least talk about this. I love you both and I can’t have you tiptoeing around each other._

They have another round until Octavia bangs on the door with an insistent: “What’s the verdict?”

It is Bellamy who speaks first, sparing her a brief glance, his eyes strong and determined, as if he has made this decision a long time ago.

“I’m in love with her,” he says to the door. “For a long time now.” He throws another glance at her, this time with a small smile. “But this is as much up to her as it is up to me.”

Her eyes are wide and her mouth is agape, her mind (while sex-lagged) still processing his admission, when Octavia squeals on the other side of the door. “Clarke?” she asks with barely concealed glee.

“I…” she starts, still looking at Bellamy and his hopeful expression. Her heart feels so light and so warm, the only feeling that remains after the copious amount of sex they have – only she doesn’t allow for it to take a place in her mind. Right now, it feels like it’s being pushed to the surface and it’s confusing her as much as his confession. She must look like a lost puppy because he steps closer to her with a heavy sigh, wraps his arms around her waist, and presses a kiss to her lips.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmurs against her lips, his own turning up with an honest smile. And then, to the door with a kind of fond exasperation he usually uses around Octavia, “Let’s not pressure her to answer, O.”

His sister concedes, and Clarke is still speechless. But when the door is opened and Bellamy is gesturing for her to exit first only does she realize what the niggling in her chest actually means. So she presses him against the door, ignoring his grunt of protest, and kisses him right there. She takes his bottom lip in between her teeth and bites down lightly, his soft sigh like music to her ears.

When she pulls away, she smiles at the dazed look in his eyes. “What was that for?” he says, his thumbs drawing circles on the skin of her hip, a big, goofy grin on his face.

“I’m… I’m in love with you, too,” she replies, burying her face into his shirt to hide her grin. “Asshole,” she adds for good measure, because that ego can’t get any bigger.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she replies, strongly this time.

And oh, she’s so glad she said those words because the sex afterwards is mind-blowing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you also to the many song suggestions I got on tumblr when I asked what steamy songs remind you of Bellarke. They definitely helped. :)
> 
> Leave a kudos or a comment on your way out or come yell at me on my [tumblr](http://hooksandheroics.tumblr.com)!


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